


Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster

by Sinna



Series: Among the Stars [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Sci-Fi AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:33:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinna/pseuds/Sinna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Montparnasse walks into a bar, Enjolras makes a scene, and Grantaire is probably too drunk to be making life-altering decisions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster

**Author's Note:**

> I have a relatively detailed history of this world that I'm going to post as soon as tumblr's back up, so I'll put a link in here when that happens.  
> EDIT- Here it is: http://sinnabird.tumblr.com/post/46635405885/a-short-history-of-the-galactic-union

Grantaire _didn’t_ growl when the dark-haired, well-dressed assassin took the bar stool next to him. He _might_ have frowned, and _maybe_ muttered a curse word or two, but he certainly didn’t growl. That didn’t stop Montparnasse from smirking and saying, “Nice doggy.”

“If you must pollute the air of this establishment,” Grantaire snapped, “at least have the decency to stay away from me.”

Montparnasse ignored him and called for the bartender, ordering some brand of alcohol Grantaire had barely heard of. He didn’t have to recognize the beer to know what it was though.

“Still drinking that Earth crap?” Grantaire asked.

Montparnasse bristled.

“Keep your opinions to yourself.”

“Just because it vaguely resembles something they used to drink on Earth,” Grantaire continued, “doesn’t make it any better than my Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster.”

He inwardly grinned as Montparnasse’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, trying to understand the reference. For someone so ‘obsessed’ with Earth culture, he was surprisingly ignorant of it. (Just last month (or was it two months ago?), he’d insisted that Elvis Presley had been President of the United Kingdom of America.) Of course, Grantaire was well aware of the fact that Montparnasse was only involved in the ‘Back to Earth’ movement because of some fashion designer he idolized, but it was incredible how little effort he put into the charade.

Still, it was none of his business. And when the only person he could even remotely call a friend was this psychotic pretty-boy, he really had no room to talk. (As he wasn’t dead yet, he supposed that friendship was mutual, although it was equally likely that Montparnasse just didn’t want to get blood on his clothes. Apparently, washing it out was a pain.)

“Have you even left the bar since the last time I saw you?” Montparnasse wondered.

It was a legitimate question, and it took Grantaire several moments to puzzle out the answer.

“I think I managed to drag myself away once or twice,” he said, with more conviction than he actually felt.

“God, you’re hopeless,” Montparnasse remarked with a dark chuckle.

“You don’t have to call me ‘god’,” Grantaire retorted smugly. “If I were one, I wouldn’t have created such a shitty universe.”

Montparnasse threw back his head and laughed.

“I told Thenardier you wouldn’t let a mention of God pass without a cynical comment.”

“I deserve at least half whatever you won off him for being so damn predictable.”

“Not a chance.”

Bright colors in the corner of his eye caught Grantaire’s attention. This far from New Earth, most people weren’t involved in what could be called “legitimate business.” It didn’t do to draw attention to yourself. Even Montparnasse, with his love of Old Earth fashion, wore mostly black leather, with the exception of the white frilly blouse which he had declared a “poet shirt” when Grantaire had mocked it.

Any criminal who wore white was either very stupid or very skilled. And Montparnasse wasn’t stupid. However, Grantaire was inclined to put the group of boys seated in the table by the window quite firmly in the ‘very stupid’ group.

He revised that opinion as he studied them. The tall man with dirty blond hair, the only sensibly dressed one in the group, had a look in his eyes that Grantaire recognized. Cyborg. Probably had half, maybe three-quarters, of his brain wired directly to a computer. And since he wasn’t wearing a collar, either unregistered or on the run. Definitely dangerous. The dark haired boy sitting next to him was laughing merrily, as comfortable as if he were relaxing on the beaches of Telmair’s moons. That level of ease couldn’t be achieved accidentally. And then there was the little androgynous creature in clashing floral prints. Given the other two, Grantaire suspected there was more to him (her?) than it seemed. He’d be willing to bet that one was their leader. It was always the ones you thought were harmless. Always.

A scowling blonde joined them, passing out drinks to the other three. It didn’t take long for Grantaire to write him off as a rich kid going through a rebellious faze and tagging along with some ‘friends’ on the wrong side of the law. He was too still, too tense. It painted a massive target on his back and if he hadn’t been with the others he would probably be dead right now.

“What are you looking at?” Montparnasse asked.

“One of your crowd is here,” Grantaire remarked, nodding towards the brightly arrayed androgynous boy (girl?). While much louder than most Earth styles, the clothes were undoubtedly cut to resemble casual clothing from the end of the twenty-fifth century, just before the destruction of Earth.

Montparnasse’s eyes blazed.

“The colors could use work, but the cut is more realistic than anything I’ve ever seen. I have to find out who the designer is.”

Grantaire leaned back against the bar to watch the show. Sure enough, it was wildly entertaining. The boy (girl?) looked up when Montparnasse approached and smiled sweetly. After a few soft words, Montparnasse went very, very still. Finally, he stalked back to the bar and chugged down his entire glass of beer.

“Well?” Grantaire prompted.

“Jean fucking Prouvaire,” Montparnasse hissed.

Grantaire’s eyes widened.

“You’re joking.”

“Ask him,” Montparnasse challenged.

Grantaire didn’t bother. If Montparnasse said it was Jean Prouvaire, it was Jean Prouvaire. It didn’t surprise Grantaire at all to learn that the little poet – the last living survivor of Earth – was not as dead as the Galactic Union claimed. The circumstances of his ‘death’ had always been suspicious.

The blonde pretty-boy made an interjection into the others’ conversation. Suddenly, he changed. The nervous demeanor gave way to an iron conviction. Lost in his words, he stood and began addressing the entire crowd.

“Look around you! Everyone here, myself included, is a criminal. And why?! Because the GALACTIC UNION drives us to it! We are given no other choice! This is the largest and most diverse civilization in human history and the people are denied the most basic of human rights on a daily basis!”

“I object to that!” Grantaire shouted.

Blazing eyes met his in an explosion that nearly knocked him off the stool. It took him a moment to recall what he’d wanted to say.

“I’m not a criminal,” he pointed out finally.

“Only because they have not yet outlawed drunkenness, I think,” the young man retorted.

“To do so would be to invite rebellion,” Grantaire countered.

“The empire is already inviting rebellion!”

Oh, joy. He was a _revolutionary._

“For the past five decades, the Galactic Union has been systematically destroying the rights of the people! The time has come for us to rise and take back what belongs to us. Think of it: A world where all inhabitants of the universe will have equal rights under the law. A world with no Alien ‘Protection’ Acts, or Cyborg registration, or Imperial drones. A world where all men are brothers! It’s been fifty years since the dissolution of the Elect. Fifty years of the Emperor’s oppression! How can you sit here and drink when HE is still in power?!”

Grantaire deliberately took another sip of his drink. His eyes were fixed on this golden-haired, brilliant, completely insane revolutionary.

He could see it. In this damn gorgeous young man’s words, he could see a better future. He remembered what it was like to have hope. To have dreams.

(He’d been just as idealistic, once.)

“Will you join us?!” the revolutionary shouted, thrusting his fist into the air.

The bar went eerily silent.

“I told you we wouldn’t find any recruits here, Enjolras,” the laid-back one remarked, his voice echoing in the silence.

Enjolras.

His name was Enjolras.

He sighed and sat back down, defeated but still glowing. Slowly, conversations began again, and the bar regained its former volume.

“I think I’m in love,” Grantaire declared.

Montparnasse followed his eyes to the young revolutionary in the bright red jacket.

“You’re not serious.”

“Of course not,” Grantaire lied.

Montparnasse didn’t fall for it.

“Holy shit! You _are_ serious.”

Grantaire had nothing to say, for once.

Enjolras leaned across the table, and moments later, the little group left.

“Gonna run after him?” Montparnasse taunted.

Grantaire considered it.

“I think I am,” he realized, getting to his feet.

“You’ll regret it in the morning.”

Grantaire shrugged.

“We’ll see about that.”

He dashed out of the bar, leaving his drink behind, just in time to see Jean Prouvaire’s electric turquoise blouse vanishing around the corner into the spaceport. Breaking into a run, he caught up to the group.

Enjolras turned to face him, his expression flickering between hope and annoyance.

“What do you want?”

You.

“I’m in.”

“What?”

“Your little revolutionary group. Count me in.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not joking.”

“You wanted recruits,” the dark haired one pointed out. “You can’t complain just because he’s not what you were hoping for. Quite frankly, we need anyone we can get.”

He turned to Grantaire.

“I’m Courfeyrac, by the way. This is Combeferre, the one in the tragic outfit is Jehan, and our fearless leader is Enjolras. And you are?”

“Grantaire,” he said, shaking the young man’s offered hand.

Enjolras scowled, but did nothing to stop Courfeyrac from adopting Grantaire into their little group.

No doubt sensing implicit approval, Jehan rushed forward to hug Grantaire and Combeferre offered a small nod.

“This is _Patria_ ,” Jehan told him, pulling him over to a battered spaceship.

“Fatherland?”

“She’s a symbol,” Enjolras explained with a hint of pride. “A symbol of the people we’re fighting for.”

A symbol of the people? That seemed about right. The people were just as much of a mess as this ship. Grantaire was already seriously questioning his judgment in joining up with these guys, and it wasn’t even the morning after yet.

Then, he caught sight of Enjolras, a hint of a determined smile tugging at his lips, and remembered why he was here.

Curse him.

A redhead came into view from behind the ship, his face lighting up when he saw them.

“You found someone!” he shouted.

“This is Grantaire,” Courfeyrac said. “Grantaire, this is our mechanic, Feuilly.”

“Nice to meet you,” Feuilly said, shaking Grantaire’s hand with an easy smile.

“Is that a Polish flag?” Grantaire asked, pointing to the pin on Feuilly’s jacket.

The mechanic beamed.

“You recognize it?!”

Grantaire shrugged.

“I studied Old Earth culture for a while,” he admitted.

“Don’t get Feuilly started on the partitions of Poland,” Courfeyrac teased. “He’ll never shut up.”

“The actions of the Polish peoples during those periods of oppression were _inspirational_!” Feuilly insisted.

Grantaire laughed. He hadn’t felt this alive for a long time.


End file.
